Shadowsinging
by FullMetalCrayon
Summary: Just because you left from there doesn't mean you can't go back.


The horse's hooves, smacking against well-traversed dirt, was the only sound for miles upon miles. The whispering grass dared the wind to blow and it refused; today was a day for quiet.

The silent hero made his way home.

The horse let out an appreciative neigh when they reached the old, rickety bridge. Epona could taste the bubbling of the springs beside the village. She could smell goat, from this far back- a welcome change from the harsh scent of loneliness and confusion. It smelled like home.

Link inhaled sharply as they walked on, allowing the farmsy, woodsy smell to settle into his nose. 'Home' is such a permanent word, he thought, a sad smile finding its way to his lips. Perhaps 'extended dwelling' would be most appropriate.

The months had stolen his words and his home. The darkness, the one his blood sings for in the night, lingered on in the back of his mind, calling to him like a tempting drink of cool water.

_Forever with the shadows, _they cooed to him, drawing him inexplicitly toward the darkest corners where its magic held firm. _Blue-eyed beast, your soul is not one of a hero._

A wolf howled in the distance and Link had half a mind to howl back. It was a lonely, twisted thing; a beast without comradeship. The lone wolf.

The forlorn notes of a howlstone crept into his mind, absently spilling from his lips in a hushed hum. 'Home' did not call for him like the wilds did.

He missed his fur.

He hated to admit such a fault; the hero, consumed by want for a forbidden magic. Trading fame and prosperity for moonlit fields and songs teeming in shadow.

The wolf picked up the quiet tune, turning it into a loud, earsplitting melodic sound. It nipped at your ears, playfully pawing at your heart, saying one word in wolf language again and again:

Alone. Because that's how wolves like it.

The gate, as always, stood open before him, townsfolk lining it. The mayor stood in a pleased slouch, the goat-keeper, a rigid salute. The children peered over heads, whispering frantically, "It's Link. He saved us, ya know. Look! Here comes the hero!"

The mayor's face sported a wide grin upon seeing Epona. "Girl!" He cried, patting the horse affectionately on the flank, his voice light and cheerful. "Long time no see!"

Link found it in himself to laugh quietly. "To you as well, mayor," he said good-naturedly, struggling to keep his tone light. "My..er…house still standing?"

The words were jagged and rough, falling from a mouth worn with disuse. Link hadn't talked since..well..since Midna-

He focused his thoughts quickly on the old man befoe him.

"Sure is, Link-my-boy," said the Mayor, jerking toward the treehouse with a thumb. "Ah..welcome home."

"Welcome home, Link!" shouted the town of Ordon, helping him off his horse with smiles and encouraging words of praise. "You savior. You hero."

His tattered, worn green tunic played the role of tired hero well enough for some emotion to slip onto Link's tired face.

"Thanks," he replied quietly, his voice even drier and worse than before. He stared at the ground briefly, listening as Collin tied Epona lovingly to the hitching post beside the house. A cheerful quiet settled over the group, much like one in the forest; the world wanted to celebrate the return of an ancient hero.

"He's tired!" yelled Beth, hands on her hips accompanied by a cocky smile. "Let Link sleep! We can celebrate tomorrow!"

Link nodded shortly at the ground, hoping Beth caught his thanks. His heart was heavy and weary; events and people and desire weighed heavily on his shoulders, breaking him into tiny splinters of a hero- like fragments of something once great.

Keeping his exhausted blue eyes to the ground, Link slowly climbed the giant ladder to his 'home,' and opened the door quietly, slipped it shut with a click. Sliding down the back of it and placing his head in dirt-encrusted hands, he listened eagerly for the forlorn howl in the distance. It teased at his ears, pulling hard on his mouth, opening it freely in an invitation to sing along.

He howled alongside the true wolf, howling for a home, howling for fur. Howling for determined days past.

The howl, swooping up and down in a flurry of crescendos and decrescendos, formed one distinct word:

Lost.

The call of a hero echoed through the valley, accompanied by another.

Lost.

What a terrible accurate word.


End file.
